


Quietly Wilting

by SanguisetVulneraAstra



Category: None - Fandom, Unspecified Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:52:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanguisetVulneraAstra/pseuds/SanguisetVulneraAstra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quietly Wilting

It hurts.

The words repeat endlessly in her head, not quite like an echo, but a starkness in an otherwise empty silence. 

Hollow.

She lays in bed and stares at the ceiling for hours in the dark. Blinds closed. Lights off. The only company a small black kitten that winds his way across her lap, around the rumpled sheets, pawing tentatively before settling amidst her thighs. Legs that are sore and bruised.

When she looks in the mirror, her eyes seem dull, no longer reflecting the light; they have become deep pits, endless black holes that swallow up any glimmer and give back nothing. 

Nothing. 

She thinks, nothing, and that is all she has left. Nothing. Her purpose seems solemn, bearing a burden that does not abate. There is a crack in her chassis, a mangling of her vital organs -when she breathes, the air seems to seep through her lungs, grains of sand that slip away. Not enough oxygen. An electric cigarette becomes a constant adornment to her lips, languid smoke lazily wafting away into the air. 

The nicotine is the only thing that calms the ache in her chest, a balm that barely manages to conceal the smoulder. She inhales incessantly, mind hardly registering the notions of poisoning, content to entertain ideals of cardiac arrest and sudden death, heart just -stopping, mid-beat -how she may drop to the floor in a boneless-tumble, eyes heavy-lidded, blank and expressionless. Like her thoughts. 

She murmurs prayers between cracking lips, eyes leaking, wetting cheeks that are slowly sinking in. Always lean, the blatancy of her thinness is becoming more evident even with clothes on. Size 2 jeans slipping from her bony hips, thin shirts billowing about her torso.

The picture she taped above the bed begins to look like a Polaroid from a dream, and she looks at it from time to time. It does not seem real, even as she presses shaking fingers to the protective layer of plastic. She finds it more comprehensive that it is something she managed to bring back when she woke up, a construct of something that, even if she were to look, would never truly find solid evidence of. When she tries to sleep, she hugs the pillow that she has draped his shirt over, inhaling the lingering traces of his scent. 

It feels like an eternity; she comes back to an empty apartment that feels as barren as she feels, as desolate as her head and heart. She walks up the stairs with dragging feet that thump with the weight of her misery. 

Life is now bleak. The colour and brilliance is fading like a flower's petals, cut from its roots and wilting. No amount of water will coax her back to life. And the only light that could save her has gone out.


End file.
